


By my Hand and By the Wind

by baku_midnight



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet, Depression, M/M, Post-Death Fic, Suicidal Thoughts, Uncle Bilbo, baby!frodo - Freeform, more a bittersweet ending, though I'm informed it's not really a happy ending, very sad but it gets better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know,” Gandalf said, clearing his throat a little, groggy from too much pipe-weed, “when there’s something stuck in my mind I can’t quite rid myself of, I write it down in a letter. It helps me to organize my thoughts, sometimes.”</p><p>Bilbo nodded appropriately and didn’t enquire further. His chest felt tight enough as it was, he knew if he spoke up at all his voice would come out cracked and pathetic. So he smiled at Gandalf and waved him farewell, turning to go into the woods, alone.</p><p>*</p><p>Thorin is gone but Bilbo can't stop thinking about him, every moment is a haunting and unwanted vigil. He decides that writing letters to him might help him collect his thoughts, and possibly come to terms with his feelings for the fallen king...</p>
            </blockquote>





	By my Hand and By the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long and self-indulgent angsty-sappy thing I wanted desperately to write, even though after several months and several kicks at it it still didn't seem to want to come together. It still feels a little bit awkward in the flow. It is indulgent and I hope satisfying, in the end, describing the way Bilbo might have dealt with Thorin's death. I hope you like reading it.

The return journey was so much more subdued than the journey away that it scarcely felt like doing, to Bilbo, who travelled the provinces with a heart seeped in indifference, at best, and anger, at worst. The journey had done him more harm than good, he thought spitefully, for it made him so hateful of the hobbitish idleness that he would have been perfectly content to whittle his days away in, before Gandalf came. Crossing the menacing dells of Mirkwood, and climbing back across the Misty Mountains, Bilbo felt he should be more interested in his journey than he could make himself be. The elven guard who accompanied him was stalwart but less-than talkative, or perhaps it was Bilbo’s own disinterest in conversation that kept him quiet – whatever it was, the journey was so uneventful that it felt like a chore, crossing back and forth across river and valley, grassland and glade, day in and day out.

 

They camped every night beneath the stars, on rocky hearths or beneath gnarled oaken roots and Bilbo slept only fretfully, his peaceful countenance gone right from him, drawn out of him like his wind. Every moment awake was damnable consternation, and everyone second asleep was agony, for in the night, he dreamed of Thorin. He dreamed of the king in his great hall, wracked by greed-illness, solitary and unkind, his eyes dark with gold-lust. He dreamed of Thorin’s face when he died, peaceful and resilient, pulled away too soon from his mighty quest. He dreamed of the smile on Thorin’s face whenever he greeted Bilbo, his eyes cheery and so, so bright, brilliant in his admiration, and the strength of his dedication.

 

Some nights Bilbo lay awake beneath the star-lit sky, staring up and drawing hazy constellations with his minds’ eye, writing every second of their journey to his memory. Others, he wept, quietly out of earshot of his steadfast companion, biting his tongue and fingers to stifle the sounds until he eventually fell asleep, and into nightmares of the good king’s death.

 

He met Gandalf across the mountains and they carried on in amicable company, and like two very old friends, they didn’t have to speak simply to fill the silence. Bilbo did a good job, he thought, of keeping his anguish inside, conversing lightly with Gandalf, asking him about the many peoples of Middle Earth, especially those who were _not_ dwarves, if he could at all help it…and never revealing his truest sorrow to the wizened wizard. Because Bilbo had a goal in mind, he had little trouble carrying on: he would return to the Trollshaws and recover their long-buried gold and give it to Gandalf in thanks, so that it would have some use beyond gathering mold at the bottom of a cave, and Bilbo’s disgrace among the trolls would have some purpose, too. He remembered how Thorin looked so very disappointed in his burglar when Bilbo failed to elude the trolls, and felt he would be glad to see the treasure dispersed rather than stagnating in that hole, and sooner rather than later.

 

After that, Bilbo would go to Bag End and thoroughly clean his home after the atrocious way he’d left it before departing Hobbiton. The mess had been quite out of his mind until now, with so much before to occupy him, but since the journey ended it was all he could think about. And after that task was done…he had no idea. There was nothing. It was as if his heart’s thread extended only so far, it was cut off at the end, and reached no further than a few months in the future. Like a miner or a spelunker trailing a string after himself when he delved the earth’s depths, so that he might find his way out, Bilbo had laid a string across the provinces so that he could find his way back again. And he feared that after he reached the end of it, he would be lost.

 

Of course, while Bilbo thought his sorrow was well-concealed, there is no secret that can be kept from a wizard, and he sensed Gandalf’s eyes on his back as they travelled, evaluating him, assessing him. They didn’t speak about what happened, in fact whenever Gandalf tried to bring up the journey Bilbo cheerily changed the subject to Rivendell, or the customs of Men, or the history of Middle Earth instead. The pain was still too near, and Bilbo had never found that airing his grievances did anything more than cause him more pain and humiliation.

 

Bilbo parted ways with Gandalf at the edge of the Shire, and they shook hands, and Gandalf looked down at him for a long while before loosing his grip.

 

“You know,” Gandalf said, clearing his throat a little, groggy from too much pipe-weed, “when there’s something stuck in my mind I can’t quite rid myself of, I write it down in a letter. It helps me to organize my thoughts, sometimes.”

 

Bilbo nodded appropriately and didn’t enquire further. His chest felt tight enough as it was, he knew if he spoke up at all his voice would come out cracked and pathetic. So he smiled at Gandalf and waved him farewell, turning to go into the woods, alone.

 

*

 

Returning home to find his things being auctioned off in light of his presumed death was something Bilbo had not expected, but perhaps it was very fitting: he _was_ dead, after all. The old Bilbo Baggins, the one who spent his days alone in his house, reading and smoking and eating and never wondering about the world beyond his own front yard, was dead and gone and would not be coming back.

 

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have a right to his possessions, and those of his mother and grandparents.

 

In the days following, Bilbo struggled to retrieve his possessions, settling on buying most of them back with gold and coin rather than putting forth the effort to convince his neighbors to return his things, out of their sense of fairness or generosity. What it said about him that Bilbo would _pay_ money to avoid speaking to his relations was something he would rather not think about, and was able to ignore, busying himself almost for a full week sorting his things. But six miserable days later, sitting atop a bulky chest, it all came flooding back, like blood to a wound suddenly unwrapped.

 

All at once he remembered – the hurt, the needless war. Dain racing down over the hills and into the terrifying fray; Gandalf yanking Bilbo by the shoulder and pulling him aside with a panic Bilbo had never seen on the old wizard’s settled features. Seeing the crumpled bodies of Fili and Kili on the snowy ledge just feet from him. And Thorin’s blood on his own hands, throat, and lips.

 

He tried to cry, but the tears did not come, and it felt like an elastic tightening around his body, pulling him and drawing him but not letting him move. His eyes burned, his nose and throat were raw and searing but tears remained elusive. He felt hungry but couldn’t eat. He felt sick but couldn’t relieve himself. His chest felt tight and he couldn’t take a breath deep enough to fill his lungs.

 

Glancing across the sitting room, Bilbo caught his drawing table, slanted, and unassuming. He moved towards it, walking as if possessed, silently like a sheet across the oak plank floor, until he was near enough to the desk to lay a hand on the edge.

 

He would write a letter, like Gandalf suggested. It couldn’t hurt to attempt to gather together his thoughts, even just for his own sake. A diary seemed too self-indulgent, and he certainly wasn’t going to _speak_ with anyone in town about his concerns. So a letter would suit his temperament just fine, he thought, taking a deep breath.

 

Bilbo settled at the desk, pulling a sheet of parchment from the drawer and laying it flat. He retrieved a quill and inkwell, and held the dipped nib above the paper, finding himself quite at a loss as to how to proceed. Who would he write to? The fellows in Erebor surely had bigger things to worry about than Bilbo’s midlife crises. He had no friends in the Shire that he would trust his _silverware_ with, much less his deepest thoughts. He thought about writing to Gandalf himself, telling him what he could not aloud, on the road. But it was clear in his mind that there was only one person to whom he wished to speak, and he was dead, in a tomb beneath the mountain.

 

Bilbo’s hand trembled as he struggled to write the name. Crossing out a few slanted “T”s, he forwent the address altogether, writing hastily,

 

_How do you do?_

 

The greeting felt most absurd in its banality, its informality, Bilbo dashed it out, quill scritching angrily on the fibrous paper.

 

_I hope this letter finds you well._

 

He tried again, and his second attempt was even more offensive in its triteness he nearly discarded the whole paper, scratching frantically sideways across the letters.

 

_You promised._

 

Bilbo wrote, anger flaring red and hot in his chest, like a furnace venting air.

 

_You promised me you would be with me forever. That you would keep me and dress me in the finery of the mountain; do you remember?_

_Your promises are broken. Your words are naught._

_I miss you._

 

_I hate you._

 

Crying openly, Bilbo scribbled so hard his quill rent a hole in the paper. The letter became hardness and malice, spiteful, and not what he wanted at all. Gasping through a wretched sob, he crumpled the paper and threw the whole contents of the desk to the floor.

 

*

 

For two days Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to clean up the writing desk. The ink spilt on the floor reminded him too much of the way the white ice of the waterfall turned black when water broke free and flowed beneath it. It reminded him of the stain that surrounded Thorin’s body, _when he…_ Oh, but the pain was still too near it was unbearable to think about, so Bilbo avoided the drawing room altogether, barely leaving his bedroom to eat.

 

For days he mostly lied in bed, forgoing reading, smoking or gardening for lying about between chores and meals. The torment of loss was heavy and thick in his head like phlegm. It weighed him down, kept him anchored to the bed sheets while he silently hated Gandalf for bringing the company to his door in the first place. It was the old wizard’s fault, after all, and entirely his. Had he not brought the company to the Shire in the first place, Bilbo would never have met them. He never would’ve sympathized with their quest, never would have risked his life for their gain. He would’ve been content to remain an idle bachelor, his heart and body both safe from the perils of the world. He lay under the covers and seethed with spite, with hatred for the wizard, who left him alone after all was said and done.

 

For a week, Bilbo simply lied in bed, his drive to live only slightly stronger than his desire to perish in hate. He kept himself healthy with meals and baths but only just, never leaving his home for more than an hour at a time. The extent of his depression was all-encompassing; it seeped into every part of his day, from waking to sleeping it followed him like a plague, rolling against his heels like fog.

 

He dragged himself from bed one late morning, with the intent to go and clean his drawing room. Dressed in his nightclothes and dressing gown, he shuffled his furry feet across the panel floor to the table, and settled down at the seat.

 

He ran a hand across the stain of black, which had spilled over the edge of the table and pooled on the floor, like a candle dripping wax. It was utterly dry, so long he’d left it. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

Gathering a wet cloth, he scrubbed hard to remove the dried ink, which left permanent stains in the groves of the wood, making the patterns in the grain stark. Just cleaning the ink took him into the late afternoon, and by then Bilbo’s mood had shifted from one of anger to one of indifference.

 

For the second time, he set pen to paper, and began to write.

 

_I loved you. I wish that you knew._

 

Eyes filling with tears, Bilbo struggled to write with slowly blurring vision.

 

_But you’re gone now, and you will never come back._

_In a part of me, I always thought that nothing would come of it. You were a king, and I was just a hobbit._

_But now you’re gone, and I will never know._

 

Wrists shaking awfully, Bilbo took the letter in both hands, this time determined to fold it, if nothing else. He creased the paper twice, trembling with tears, just barely able to keep going as he reached for an envelope beneath the table, in the drawer. His hand met the resistance of the drawer pull and he cursed aloud, angrily gripping the pull and jarring it loose none-too-gently. Crying openly, moaning as he worked he sheathed the letter, crushing the corners and dripping tears on the back.

 

His task done, Bilbo sat back in the chair, utterly exhausted.

 

For a moment, he thought that he felt better. Thought that getting his musings down on paper would at least alleviate the pressure inside his mind, where thoughts and regrets were packed tightly, his mind full, as if stuffed with cotton.

 

But it didn’t help. All at once, the despair, the loss, and now, the disappointment _in himself_ for his inability to reconcile with the horrific feelings that were in his heart; they all came rushing forth. His pain was doubled. His heart was broken. Hopelessly, he returned to bed without dinner.

 

*

 

Almost a month passed without Bilbo even noticing. The days blurred together into a dull, slow slurry of light and sound, the occasional cheering outside his window, and the creaking of the house his only companions in the dark of his bedroom. He ate once a day. He had no one to confide in. He drank tea in the evening to help him get to sleep, but that remained the only constant of his routine. He stumbled through his days like a drunkard. He could only imagine what his former companions would think if they saw him now.

 

Not that he expected to see them again. Thorin was gone; what use did they have of him now?

 

Always the sadness prevailed over his mind, blocking everything else out. No sound woke him. He heard no voices. Not even Thorin’s voice, or Gandalf’s, visited him in the night. His sleep was not fretful – it was empty and void.

 

Rousing gently one morning, Bilbo stared at the doorway of his bedroom as a throbbing sound echoed through him. Pulsing, deep, he thought it was his heartbeat, until he realized it was coming from outside. Someone was knocking on his door.

 

Hoping that whoever had come would give up and leave, Bilbo ignored the sound, but it continued, insistent, for a good few minutes. Whoever was knocking was truly intent on seeing him, and despite himself he couldn’t help but feel obligated to go and answer the door – the very action that set him on this miserable path in the first place.

 

Shakily, and in his robes, Bilbo opened the door, wincing as the natural light streamed in. As his vision returned he saw two of his distant cousins at the door, Saradoc and Esmerelda Brandybuck. They both looked frightfully worried, and on Esmerelda’s hip rested a small child, no older than two.

 

Bilbo looked the two of them over, and didn’t say a thing. His voice throat was thick and hoarse from misuse, as was his sense of hospitality.

 

“Bilbo, dear, there’s been a terrible accident,” Esmerelda said, her curly brown hair knotty with stress. It fell to her shoulders to be gripped in one of the little child’s hands – the other he had in his mouth, feeling around for new teeth. “Your second cousin, Drogo, and his wife Priscilla, have died.”

 

Bilbo didn’t react. He couldn’t take anymore death, he simply couldn’t. Surely he had _heard wrong_ , his mind convinced him, and he just shook his head, looking sharply away from the trio at his door.

 

“No,” he muttered simply, and heard Esmerelda’s stressed sigh.

 

“It’s true. They drowned in the river, it’s terrible business. And they left their dear Frodo behind,” she went on, lifting the child higher up on her hip. He must’ve been born while Bilbo was away, as he hadn’t heard the news of his birth before now. “Now he needs someone to take care of him, and we will take him in, but—now I know that you don’t have any children of your own, and it wouldn’t be fair to entrust him to you—”

 

“Indeed,” Bilbo croaked tactlessly, starting to go back inside.

 

“Which is why it would be only for a week!” Esmerelda hastened to add, and Bilbo turned around. “Please, only a week, while we get Brandy Hall ready for him.”

 

Bilbo faltered. A week? He was not ready, nor suited to care for a child. He couldn’t even care for a fully-grown dwarf. Much less could he do for a toddler, barely able to walk or speak.

 

“Take him home,” Bilbo answered. He didn’t need this. This news did not concern him. Yet another one of the people he cared for was dead, so what? How many more times would he have to re-remember their deaths?

 

“But he doesn’t _have_ a home,” Esmerelda said, and Bilbo froze. If that didn’t tug at his heartstrings, limp and sagging as they were, nothing would. He stared at his furry toes, dirty from neglect, and shook his head.

 

Could he really trust himself to care for a child? What choice was there? There was something that needed to be done, so he would do it, but he feared for the outcome. He’d spent the entire year last failing – failing to restore Thorin to his homeland, failing to prevent war, failing to protect those he loved… What more was left in him that could be redeemed?

 

Despite himself, Bilbo found himself nodding his assent.

 

“Oh, thank you,” Esmerelda breathed a sigh of relief, and handed the child, Frodo, over to Bilbo, as easily as if passing a sack of flour. Bilbo stumbled a little at the child being thrust upon him so, but hardly reacted otherwise, as Saradoc began handing over a series of the infant’s things.

 

“It’s only a week, until we prepare a room for the child,” Saradoc explained briskly, as was his way, and Esmerelda nodded emphatically behind him, as the two of them moved a bassinette, a set of blankets and toys, and some prepared food into Bag End’s front room. Bilbo watched them work, passively holding the child on his hip.

 

“We’ll be back next Monday,” Esmerelda finished, and the pair bustled off with a wave in Bilbo’s direction, and just like that, he was left alone again.

 

Well, not entirely alone. He looked over at the child perched on his hip, who was watching him curiously while still gumming at his hand.

 

“I suppose you should come in,” Bilbo told the child, and turned through the round door.

 

*

 

Frodo was a good child, and nothing like his ill-behaved father at all, Bilbo realized. He could walk, but not yet speak beyond the words “ma” and “no”, electing to point and reach for things instead. When he spilt his food on the floor, Bilbo could scarcely be made to care. He tended the child with relative ease – this, like all things, was a puzzle to be solved, and Bilbo was keen at solving. He fed the babe when he was hungry, changed him when he needed it, and left him to explore the rest of the time.

 

Most of Bag End remained packed in boxes and chests, so Bilbo was not worried that Frodo would get into his things and break them, or harm himself. The child kept to his toys, and everything he handled he did so with care, carefully placing things and never throwing them.

 

To Bilbo, the babe was a poor substitute for his lost company. He did not speak, merely walked about, exploring. He cried, of course, daily, when denied being allowed to climb on the high furniture, especially, and for reasons Bilbo realized he would never know.

 

“You miss your ma and pa, don’t you?” Bilbo observed, trying to console Frodo as he rocked the child at his waist, bouncing him up and down while the child sobbed and wailed.

 

“I know a thing or two about losing the ones you love,” Bilbo said, mortified that he was getting choked up himself.

 

Frodo continued to cry, inconsolable, when Bilbo laid him against his shoulder, letting the babe rest against his neck. The child cried and cried until he was too tired and his sobs were reduced to quiet moans and wheezy breaths. Bilbo put him to bed early that evening, and he slept, exhausted from crying, nearly the whole night through.

 

Bilbo rubbed at his temples where a headache was growing. In addition to his depression and the stress of tending a crying baby, there was another darkness plaguing at his mind, one that he carried with him always.

 

*

 

The next day, Frodo was well-behaved, but Bilbo was miserable. He fed the child what he himself ate, carefully making small pieces out of his vegetables and sectioning his scones so that Frodo could join him at his meals, though the child dined on the floor, after so many times dropping his food there.

 

Having to care for a child made Bilbo take his meals and baths regularly, yet still the day dragged on, and the longer Bilbo stayed awake for the sake of the baby, the more the voices plagued him. They came constantly, now, a nonstop barrage of hateful noise, and Bilbo finally decided to do the unthinkable, and reached for a bottle of gin from his storage.

 

The bottle shook in his trembling hand, his vision blurring with violent intent. It would be so easy. _So easy._ A slumber, dreamless and endless.

 

“I will see you again,” Bilbo said finally to the bottle, and opened it.

 

The fluid was bitter medicine, but Bilbo drank. He drank until the voices grew quiet, and then faded entirely. But then he did not stop, sucking at the bottle like a beast lapping its mother’s milk. His stomach grew queasy, then settled again, and then he went still, and lost all sense.

 

*

 

At first Bilbo was in darkness, covered on all sides by a malevolent, hulking vision of pure black. Then came a faint glow, blurry and fuzzy like one’s vision when they just awaken. A figure appeared, surrounded by the most brilliant silvers and whites, a halo of ethereal shine surrounding him.

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo breathed, instantly moving forward, only hesitating when reason caught up with him and he realized that Thorin shouldn’t be here. Yet when Bilbo approached, the dwarf remained, and put out his arms to take Bilbo into them.

 

Bilbo nearly leapt forward with a cry, throwing himself into Thorin’s chest and holding him as tight as he could muster. His arms trembled around Thorin’s broad back, the warmth of his chest seeping into Bilbo’s skin like starlight on a clear evening.

 

“My precious one, my jewel,” Thorin said softly, as Bilbo pulled away from their embrace, holding himself at an arm’s length – surely this was some illusion, some trickery. But Thorin _was_ there, near to him, watching him with that deeply admiring look that Bilbo had gone so long now without.

 

“You’re gone,” Bilbo whispered, and Thorin just smiled calmly in return.

 

“No, I’m here with you, always,” Thorin answered with a slight shake of his head. He reached out and took Bilbo’s small hands in his own, wrapping his fingers around them and pulling them to his mouth to place a kiss on each fingertip. Every single finger he treated with such care, such dedicated attention, as though each one was a precious jewel of its own. His lips prickled, Bilbo felt his hands trembling under the touch, he was so taken away by just _seeing_ Thorin again. “You will _never_ leave my heart.”

 

Bilbo shook his head helplessly; he’d never felt so lost in his life. Pain mixed with relief, he felt alive and heated from the inside like he hadn’t in weeks, maybe _months,_ since nearly a year ago, when he saw the life go from Thorin’s eyes.

 

“You’ll leave, you’ll go,” Bilbo insisted back as Thorin smoothed a palm through his blond hair. His breath shuddered as he drew in a gulp of air and begged, “ _whatever will I do without you?_ ”

 

“My dear one,” Thorin answered, cupping Bilbo’s cheek with one thick, warm hand, his fingers rustling the curls on his forehead, “you must be one and whole for a long time to come. You have so much to enjoy, and to be, and to do, and those who depend on you.”

 

Bilbo shook his head petulantly, even though in his heart, he knew Thorin’s words to be true. He had a life yet to live – but he did not want to, without Thorin in it.

 

“I want you to be there with me,” Bilbo continued, knowing it was futile to argue, but knowing he wanted Thorin to know the truth. How much he cared, and how deeply, _deeply_ he loved the King under the Mountain.

 

“I will be, my love,” Thorin said, and leaned in to place a kiss on Bilbo’s forehead. He had to bend quite significantly then to put his forehead against Bilbo’s, but their difference in height seemed to disappear in that moment, as they were so close together, it was as if they were one being.

 

*

 

Bilbo awoke to darkness, and a low, throbbing pain, deep in his back, his hips, his neck, shoulders… He didn’t know where he was, only that the floor was hard underneath him, and cold.

 

He stirred and looked around, but it hurt his head to try and turn it. His vision was blurred, as if it took a moment to catch up when he turned his head. He was so tired... He could scarcely entertain even the thought of lifting his head, much less moving.

 

And what was the point? Thorin existed now only in his dreams. Bilbo’s worst fears had come true – he had found his heart in a stranger, and lost it again. There was nothing for him on this earth but more misery and aloneness.

 

Someone was stirring in the house, Bilbo realized then, but he couldn’t be bothered to investigate. Small footsteps came towards him, growing louder, bare feet smacking on the wooden floor, and Bilbo turned his head into the sound, head aching with liquor’s wicked aftereffects.

 

It was little Frodo, walking across the kitchen to Bilbo lying prone on the floor. The child must’ve wanted something in the night, and after finding crying ineffective, got up to go and investigate. What a curious child, Bilbo thought, who would brave the unknown rather than stay where it is safe. And strong, Bilbo concluded, his mind blurry around the edges but still colourful with thought.

 

The child walked along, carefully, measuring each step, but for all his care he was still unpracticed, and taking one wrong step he tripped and fell, instinctively catching himself on his hands. Then, more out of shock than anything, he started to cry.

 

The sound startled Bilbo, and he snapped his head up to see Frodo on his hands and knees on the floor, big wet tears filling his precious blue eyes, mouth open around a howl of pain and fear. Bilbo scrambled up instantly, but it was a struggle he was not prepared for – the liquor had dulled his senses and he slipped and fell over and over trying to right himself, and the frustration drove him on, made him more impatient. How stupid was he? Trying to escape this world when there was a child in it for whom he was responsible? It was shameful, it was _stupid_ – Bilbo forced himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled towards the distressed child, reaching for him and gathering him into his arms.

 

“Shh, yes, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Bilbo cooed, settling on his knees and pulling the baby into his lap. Frodo sobbed and let himself be held like a newborn, cradled in Bilbo’s arms, drawing his hands to his mouth and cheeks, trying to comfort himself. “Oh, I know, little one, it’s alright, I’ve got you.”

 

Bilbo lifted Frodo up onto his shoulder and squeezed him tight, embracing the child as his sobs turned into quiet moans, and finally soft whimpers as he calmed down, hiccupping occasionally but going soft as Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief.

 

In that moment, Bilbo was finally, entirely present. Thanks to that little creature, he too alone in the world, Bilbo was finally able to feel full and whole, if only for a little while, and his gratitude to Frodo was untold. For just a moment, he believed everything would be alright, even if soon after his heartbreak returned. In that moment, he held Frodo and cooed to him, holding him tight as they rocked together, whispering to him sweet praises and comforts.

 

“My darling,” Bilbo whispered into the house, seated in the empty kitchen late at night, “I’ll be here for you. Don’t worry, my dear, I will always be here for you.”

 

*

 

The end of the week came too soon after that, but while Bilbo was reluctant to see Frodo leave Bag End, he was comforted in knowing that the boy would grow up in the best of care, surrounded by family and loved ones, always with someone to turn to. He expected it wouldn’t be the last time he saw the lad in the Baggins household, anyway, and as he waved goodbye to the child on Monday morning, Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Weeks passed, and Bilbo started to read and study again. His days were brighter, though always tainted with a sort of melancholy, a nostalgia he couldn’t shake, but they were good and happy days. Weeks turned into months and into years, and Bilbo saw more little hobbits being born in the Shire, including his gaffer’s, Samwise, who came to visit Bag End more often than not. It was nearly five years from the day Bilbo returned to the Shire when he found his writing desk again, and the unsealed letter pressed neatly between the desk and a stack of thick texts.

 

Looking at the letter again was hard, and it made his heart feel tight, but Bilbo sat down at the desk anyway, and pulled out a fresh sheet. This time, he would write something good and decent, something true, and address it to the one whom he loved and who left him behind, years ago.

 

_Dear Thorin,_

 

Bilbo wrote, smiling a sort of sad smile at the writing on the page. The very letters had the personality of the man himself, he thought, the very tall and imposing “T” stood well above the rest of the letters on the page.

 

_Little Samwise, Hamfast’s boy, came over today. I am teaching him to read and write, in Westeron and in Elvish. I know you wouldn’t approve of that second fact._

 

He chuckled to himself a little as he re-dipped his quill.

 

_I will teach him about all of the peoples of Middle Earth, in as much as I am able. He will know of the proud dwarves who lived under the mountain, and he will remember them, just as I will always remember you._

_Thank you for showing me your world, and allowing me to share in your perils._

_Yours truly_

 

Bilbo paused and let the nib hover above the paper, pondering his closing salutation. It seemed too formal, and quite unlike the dwarf who had barged into his home one evening, years ago.

 

_~~Yours truly~~ _ _Yours always,_

_Bilbo_

 

He finished the letter with a sigh of completion and put it in an envelope, and along with the first stashed it in an empty chest near the desk. The task felt good to complete, and Bilbo continued the pattern once a day hence, writing a letter about what happened that day, the good and the bad, and put the letters away for later.

 

*

 

Every day from then on, Bilbo wrote a letter, talking about the state of the Shire’s crops that month, or the happenings around town. He made it part of his daily routine, after dinner and before his bath. Occasionally he wondered if such mundane news would entertain the dwarven king in the slightest, but he realized that Thorin would be happy to hear anything Bilbo had to say. With that thought in mind, he wrote:

 

_The crops have come in splendidly this year. We’ll have a surplus of onions, I’m sure of it. I think I’ll grill them for Midsummer’s party this year._

_Little Frodo is nearly 10 years old now, and able to write in full sentences in Elvish. I am so proud of him._

_I remember the day we left Mirkwood forest. Of course I remember the entering as well, but that was not nearly as spectacular as the exiting. At that time, pushing the company out of the hold and into the river in barrels, I knew I was utterly sunk. That is, I was totally and completely dedicated to the adventure. Why else would I toss a lot of dwarves into a river that I had no idea where it led? Simply because the most imposing and handsome leader of the company had asked me to find them an exit?_

_I do not regret a single moment of our adventure together. Not a day passes that I do not think upon it, and most often it is with fondness._

_I will remember you always,_

_Your love,_

_Bilbo_

 

Smiling a little to himself, Bilbo creased the letter and placed it in its envelope, laying it carefully in the chest. He let the lid fall closed on the box and went off to bed.

 

*

 

Every day Bilbo wrote, even the smallest letter of only a few sentences, for years hence. There is no stopping the steady procession of age, however, and eventually every day become every week, then month, then perhaps only once a year, on the anniversary of the start of their journey. Eventually the letter-writing stopped altogether as Bilbo’s mind turned to other things, especially his next journey, which he knew he would take alone, and would be his last. The letters remained in the bottom of the chest next to the writing desk, hidden from sight, kept, precious and filled with love.

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The years had worn on Frodo, and finally he was beginning to think in seriousness about Galadriel’s words to him: that to be a ring-bearer was to be alone, and to never be able to return to a peaceful life. In a way, he’d known that since Weathertop. Earlier, perhaps, since Bree, when Gandalf had failed to meet them there and Frodo was forced to lie about his identity. It was so easy, slipping into the body of Mr. Underhill, a new hobbit, a turned hobbit, so easy that it was harder in fact to go _back_ to being just Frodo Baggins. He knew now that his uncle felt the same.

 

So when he knew it was time to leave the Shire for good, Frodo went about taking care of the most important of his affairs: first, Bag End, which went to Sam. Then, there was the matter of donating the rest of his fortune to those in the Shire who needed it; and lastly, to sort through the rest of Bilbo’s belongings, which he had left behind, when he so abruptly left. Bilbo had taken a paltry share of his things, really, clothes, books, and coin – and left a great deal of fanciful artifacts stuffed into chests and boxes all around Bag End.

 

Frodo sorted through an old chest, the wood so aged that it was nearly black around the edges, and the filigree nearly worn off. He pulled out a set of clunky armour and a thick shield, hobbit-sized but certainly not of hobbit make, and looked them over curiously, nose wrinkling at the dust that puffed off of the tarnished surface as he lifted them. He put them aside and pulled out a set of diaries, leather-bound and full mostly of drawings, not by Bilbo’s hand, but someone else’s, someone terribly skilled and sensitive. Frodo smiled at the sketches of his uncle’s younger self – he had Belladonna’s same upturned-nose and smug grin, and hair that curled at the back of his neck. Frodo himself looked nothing alike, with a firm jaw and high cheekbones.

 

While he pondered which of the artifacts would go to Mathom-House, and which would remain in Bag End, Frodo sifted through the very bottom of the chest, half-expecting it to be lined with gold, and finding instead a layer of letters, still in their envelopes, plentiful enough to span the width and length of the box. He lifted one and found a layer underneath – layer upon layer, all the way to the bottom they were piled, one on top of the other like fallen leaves accumulated over many years.

 

The letters were all unsealed, as if they were never meant to be sent. And addressed only to one name, and no address: Thorin. Written in his uncle’s playful print, the single name stood stark against the cream-coloured paper.

 

Surely it was the same Thorin in Bilbo’s book, the story which Bilbo had not brought himself to tell Frodo until he was gone far away. It was the same Thorin who died, heroically but tragically, nearly 80 years erstwhile. Frodo read the book so many times he felt not unfamiliar to the characters in it, as if he’d met them himself.  He was quite comfortable imagining himself surrounded by the dwarven company, sharing a smoke with Bofur, or listening to one of Balin’s tales. Only Thorin was strangely distant to him, as Bilbo had not spent very much time describing him with much familiarity, instead speaking about him as if from afar, as one, Frodo imagined, spoke of someone revered posthumously.

 

The temptation was too great to open the letters, Frodo could scarcely reconsider. Besides, if there was anything in Bag End his uncle had not wished him to see, he would not have left it behind, would he? Taking a shaky breath and looking over his shoulder, as if someone would catch him, Frodo lifted the first letter.

 

Pulling open the first envelope and slipping the folded paper out, Frodo held his breath as he read:

 

_Hello, how do you do?_

_I hope that my words find you well, wherever you are…_

_The crops have grown splendidly this year, and my tomatoes are no exception,_

_A dwarven blacksmith from the Iron Hills came to sell his wares this morn, and I could only think of you and the company. Their boisterous natures, their good hearts…_

He read, pulling letter after letter, his eyes darting across the print: pleasant words, paltry words, deeply personal words. Frodo wiped a tear from his eye as he pulled another.

 

_Frodo is nearly an adult now. It seems just yesterday he came to visit and he was small enough to fit in a mixing bowl._

_The tree above Bag End grows splendidly every year. The children have taken to calling it “Bilbo’s Tree”. Every time I see it, I think of you._

_It has been 10 years,_

_It has been 25 years._

_40 years have passed since you left me, and still not a week goes by that I do not remember your face._

_My darling,_

_My truest love._

_I will always remember you, and I will always love you._

 

Frodo’s eyes welled with tears, his throat tight and his heart felt as if drawn by rope. Reading the letters made him feel alive with emotions he hadn’t expected to feel ever again. His heart had felt cold for so long, now it was like it was being heated, by simmering candlelight, warm and gentle and full.

 

These letters were a vigil. An artifact of his uncle’s love. Memories, 60 years’ worth, piled up, one on the other like fallen leaves. They were more precious than any of the gold or antiques in this luxuriant home.

 

Frodo packed them up, every single one. He would send them, as a last honour to his uncle, even though the recipient was no longer of this world, and the letters were old and probably forgotten. They did not deserve to be locked in a trunk forever more: they would be sent on the wind, scattered among the trees and grasses, carried by the streams and waters until they returned to the Earth itself. He would send them, all across the countryside, and they would reach their destination, of that he was sure. More sure than he had been of anything in a long, long time.

 

*

 

The journey by carriage from Rivendell was quiet, his uncle aged and very tired slept most often along the journey, curled against Frodo’s shoulder or against the wall of the cart, his frail old body rattled by the jostling of the wheels over the path. The horses clomped eagerly before the carriage, their hooves beating the ground across rocky path and grassy plane, as the two hobbits made their way to Lindon.

 

Recalling the undue weight in his pack, Frodo carefully took his arm out from beneath his uncle’s chin, though as careful as he was not to wake him, Bilbo still stirred. He awoke with a small groan and watched groggily as Frodo withdrew from the pack at his arm a stack of letters, now sealed, and held them in one hand.

 

“What are those?” Bilbo asked sleepily. His mind was very tired, and he often seemed to forget things. Little things, like the time of day, or whether he had eaten – however, much larger things stayed well intact, things like the history of Middle Earth, or the wide scope of his adventures. He still remembered every detail of his younger years, it was only these latest ones that were fuzzy, Frodo had realized, especially when Bilbo asked him, very innocently, if he could see the ring he had left to Frodo long ago.

 

“They’re letters, uncle,” Frodo said, and looked fondly at the front of one. The neat script reading “Thorin” was stark and confident, much like the hand that had written it. Then, he tossed it out the window of the carriage.

 

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked, quite startled, as he watched two and three more letters fall out the window of the carriage, caught up by the wind and sailing out of his nephew’s slim hand.

 

“Sending them,” Frodo answered with a smile, and let another go.

 

“Oh, of course,” Bilbo nodded his understanding, admonishing himself for his forgetfulness. What else did you do with letters but send them?

 

Frodo let another handful from his hand, one at a time, to be caught by the wind and sent away. They would travel on the air and by the stream, caught in nature’s grasp and carried along paths and roads, rivers and streams. Perhaps one would be found by a farmer ploughing his fields, and he would bury it in the ground, where from the soil would grow crops. Maybe a man, or elf ranger would find one in the wilderness, and read what was inside. Maybe another would find its way down a swiftly-flowing stream, and end up at the bottom of a lake, miles and miles from here. Each and each would break down, turn back into earth and become soil for trees, and food for animals, their words taken into the earth itself, to keep forever.

 

“Who are they for?” Bilbo asked softly, then, a curious look on his wrinkled face, his voice soft and crackling with age.

 

“Someone called Thorin Oakenshield,” Frodo said, turning playfully to his uncle, curious as to whether or not that would warrant a reaction. To his glee Bilbo’s face lit up instantly, his green eyes widening as he sat just a little straighter on the carriage bench.

 

“Oh, I knew him,” Bilbo said, sitting up, looking off distantly, as if reaching for something that was far away. “He was a good person, very good indeed. A dwarf, you know. Dwarf royalty.”

 

Frodo nodded along, of course aware of most every detail. “Was he?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Bilbo went on, patting his knee, “he was very good, and very brave. And handsome,” Frodo smiled broadly as his uncle let out a sigh at the memory, “and loyal. And sharp, and charming.”

 

“Ah,” Frodo agreed softly, as Bilbo started to quiet back down to rest, “he sounds like a wonderful person.”

 

“He was,” Bilbo nodded. Frodo realized that this was the first time his uncle had ever spoken of Thorin to him, and felt that he was quite uniquely privileged to hear about him. After all, there were probably very few alive today who remembered king Thorin, and even fewer who knew him how Bilbo did.

 

“I hope those letters find him,” Bilbo concluded, settling back down to rest against his nephew’s shoulder.

 

“I’m sure they will,” Frodo answered quietly, and lay his head against Bilbo’s, eyes swimming with joy as the last letter flew and was gathered by the wind.

 

END


End file.
